


Say My Name

by The_Pugnisher



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:05:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6462412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Pugnisher/pseuds/The_Pugnisher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John learns that a Sherlock by any other name is not a happy Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say My Name

**Author's Note:**

> This was a flash fic written at the 221B Con in Atlanta. The topic was: "Why don't you say my name anymore?"

John and Sherlock collapsed slowly, carefully on the bed. John held tight to Sherlock, leaving his throbbing cock deeply buried into the other man… No, John thought, my lover. John’s rough hands slid and caressed Sherlock’s slim chest and stomach as if they had minds of their own, and, possibly, they did. He never wanted this moment to end. This moment of: satisfaction, warmth, sweat, breathing, nuzzling. He wanted to burn it into his mind as deeply as some of his army buddies had seared their insignia into their arms with a fire-brand.  
Sherlock was quiet except for his breathing. John leaned forward. He dragged his mustached lips over the other man’s sharp shoulder, up his thin neck, nibbled his earlobe, and kissed the spot just under and behind the ear. Sherlock lifted his head into the hungry mouth. John whispered,  
“Something on your mind?”  
There was no answer other than the slight pump of a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.  
“Babe?” John pushed, “what’s wrong?”  
Sherlock pulled away, and John felt wave after wave of cold assault him; not all of it had to do with temperature. John’s dark haired lover stood and walked away from the bed toward the closet. John’s troubled, yet hungry, eyes admired the lithe body, the feline grace, and the perfect ass that seemed to tease. He was hit with an urge to fuck his best friend, but he could not do that until he figured out where Sherlock was in his head.  
“You can’t just shut down on me,” Watson complained. Sherlock was hardly ever this quiet. The man loved the sound of his own voice, everyone knew that. The only time that Sherlock was this quiet was when he was in the middle of a case and something had stumped him. They had not had a case in over a month though, so there seemed to be no reason for the detective to be deep in thought. The silence worried John.  
“Talk to me babe?”  
“Why do you call me that?” the detective asked; his tone quiet. There was inquisitiveness, openness to Sherlock’s voice, and it occurred to John that Sherlock really thought there was some confounding mystery to be solved.  
“Call you what?”  
“Babe?”  
“I called you b…” John started to ask, but stopped. Had he really called Sherlock babe? Why had he done that? He hardly ever used nicknames for his lovers. Then it hit him. Sherlock, somehow, knew this. The detective knew that he hated using pet names and that they were not his thing. “I.. I don’t know, really.”  
Sherlock pulled a robe from the closet and wrapped it around himself. Though he still stood facing away, John knew that he had a pursed set to his lips, an intense furrow to his brow. John imagined this look on the detective’s face, and he remembered seeing it thousands of times while they were trying to solve some conundrum. He also remembered how he wanted to run up and kiss his friend simply to break the concentration... or at least shift the man’s mind so that Sherlock would think of John as deeply, intensely as he thought about murders.  
“Why did you…” John started, but Sherlock cut him off.  
“Why don’t you ever use my name anymore?”  
“What?” he asked; stupefied.  
“My name. Why don’t you use it?”  
“I.. I don’t know,” he stammered trying to think of an answer. He wanted to please Sherlock. He wanted to get him out of this mood, but he did not know the answer that would solve this puzzle.  
“You used to…” Sherlock said, but stopped. John was certain that the other man’s voice had cracked.  
“Used to what?” John pressed.  
“You used to say my name when we were working, and I was focused on a case.”  
“Well… Um… Yes. I did. You ignored me. A lot,” John admitted, unsure of where this was going.  
“It drove me crazy.”  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” he was lost. Sherlock had lost him, yet again. John was awed by the quiet, steeliness in Sherlock’s voice, and it worried it. Was he going to end it? Was he going to walk out of John’s life? John couldn’t handle that. It would break him. He could not handle life without Sherlock. Not again.  
“I would be so deep in thought, so lost in my mind palace, that nothing could distract me. Then I would find myself back in reality because you would say my name. You drove me crazy. You saying my name over and over. Ignoring you was impossible. You didn’t even seem to notice what you were doing to me.”  
“I didn’t know,” John said, looking down at the bed. Sherlock had never been so open. It was strange, scary, disarming, and upsetting.  
“But, now. Now that I’m here with you. Now that I’m in bed with you, you don’t say my name. I feel like I’m not here. I feel like I’m lost in my mind palace, and that this is a fantasy. This isn’t real. That you are a figment…”  
“Sherlock.”  
Sherlock stopped his jumbled, halted speech, and looked back at John.  
“Sherlock get over here and kiss me.”  
It was only a minute before they were back together, their arms around each other.  
“Sherlock, I’m going to fuck you. And when you cum, I’m going to scream your name. You will be in this moment. You’ll know this is real. You’ll know I’m with you and in you. But, first, I have one question.”  
Sherlock leaned back, and locked eyes with John. He asked, “Yes?”  
“Do you really have a room in your mind palace dedicated to fantasies of me?” John asked. Sherlock blushed, leaned forward, and buried his face in John’s scruffy neck. “I love you, Sherlock.”


End file.
